“Probably at the office,” Murdock said.
“I’ll be over,” Kirby said. “I want to talk to you.”
10
WHEN Murdock walked into the studio a few minutes later he was surprised to see Delaney at his desk because he had forgotten what he had told T. A. Wyman the night before. Now Delaney looked a bit embarrassed and said he had been told Murdock would not be in.
“Do you want to get here?” he asked, half rising.
“No,” Murdock said. “Sit still.”
He backed out of the doorway, feeling a little lost as he glanced round the studio. In retrospect he was a little embarrassed himself, not about Delaney but about the things he had said to Wyman. For it occurred to him now that he had probably sounded like a schoolboy with his request for a couple of days off and the inference that he needed the time to solve Brady’s murder.
Because he was annoyed with himself he moved over behind a cabinet partition that had been erected behind his office. Here the shelves had been cut up into boxlike receptacles much like mailboxes behind a hotel desk only larger. Each was marked with a photographer’s name and served as a catchall for small personal items and mail. Extending out from this was a broader shelf that made a long continuous table the men used as a desk when making notes or writing captions. There was a chair here by the window and Murdock eased down in it.
“Two days,” he said, talking silently to himself. “For what? Bacon’s already checked Brady’s building, and the parcel lockers in the station. He’s probably working on the taxi companies to see if that woman in the camel’s-hair coat got a ride. So go ahead and solve the case, Murdock. Get busy.”
His thoughts continued in a like vein until he got the subject out of his system, and then, becoming more sensible, he reached for the telephone and asked the operator to get him the hospital. It took him a while to locate the resident who had been looking after Carey, but when he asked his questions the answers were good.
“He’ll be okay,” the doctor said. “If he behaves himself we’ll release him tomorrow, but no visitors until late this afternoon or this evening.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“It would be better if you didn’t.”
Murdock hung up, feeling slightly better. He got a cigarette going and then he sat there sorting out facts and details he could substantiate, but never going far with his speculations. He paid no attention to the traffic in and out of the studio as members of the staff came and went. When spoken to, his hellos were automatic so that it surprised him a little when someone took hold of his shoulder and he looked round to find Kirby standing there.
“Where can we talk?” Kirby said. “Is it too early for lunch?”
Murdock said he guessed this was as good a time as any, so they rode down in the elevator and went round the corner to this place that made up in plain, well-cooked food for what it lacked in style. It had not yet begun to fill up with luncheon customers and they found a corner table, and presently a waiter—they all were ancient males who were no more polite than they had to be—came to ask their pleasure. After Murdock had ordered soup and a sandwich and Kirby had asked for broiled scrod and French fries, Kirby spoke of the things he had in mind.
He wanted to know if Murdock had any idea who killed Brady, and if he thought he could solve the case. Murdock said no to both questions.
“And neither can anybody else, alone,” Kirby said, “unless someone gets awfully damn lucky. Take me, I’m a private cop now and I’ve got no authority and I’ll get no help from the department. Murder is a police job and always will be, but in this one I’d like a piece of it if I can get it and I think you would too, right?”
Murdock nodded in agreement as he sampled his soup.
“The police have got the manpower, the technical equipment, the authority,” Kirby said, “but they’re not God. Some people fight ’em, and clam up; some don’t. All right, I was a cop too and I’ve got my own ways of working. I can do some things the police can’t do because I’ve got no hard-headed captain to worry about any more. The same with you. With that press card of yours you can get in places where I couldn’t get past the front steps. Not only that, people will talk to a newspaper guy where they won’t talk to a cop.”
He watched the waiter put down the scrod, squeezed lemon on it, and coated the potatoes with catsup. Murdock waited, noticing Kirby’s houndstooth jacket, the slight upward-slanting angle of his brows, the way the muscles of the hard jaw bulged as he chewed. He recalled the things that had been said about the man, and the impression remained that here was a very competent, ambitious fellow who would be a good man to have on your side and very difficult to push very far. As he considered such details the gray-green eyes came up to meet his, steady, direct, and confident.
“You know about my record on the force,” he said, and now his mouth twisted as he added: “I had a bellyful of it. Twelve years. I liked the work, but not the silly rigmarole you have to put up with. I got a hole in my thigh when I shot it out with those three punks that tried to hold up the delicatessen; I was flat on the sidewalk when I dropped the third one. For that I got a promotion out of uniform. I’m a credit to the department with a citation and a bronze medal.”
Murdock’s cold roast-beef sandwich came and he began to work on it, at the same time nodding to indicate that he was still listening.
“I had some good pinches,” Kirby said. “I’m third from top on the sergeant’s list. So what happens? A guy crashes a car I peg as stolen. He gets out and runs when I yell at him. It’s at night so how do I know who he is or how long a record he’s got? I throw a slug over his head to warn him and when he keeps going I bring him down. That’s what I’m paid to do but this time it turns out to be a kid without any previous record, so there’s a big stink and I get a department trial, an official reprimand.”
“You weren’t suspended,” Murdock said.
“Or demoted. Not at the time. I was too hot. So when I cool off I get a transfer to—guess where?”
“Hyde Park.”
“Yeah,” said Kirby and grinned. “You read the papers.… Okay, so I quit. I was sore.”
“Maybe too sore,” Murdock said, “because I don’t think anyone in the department really blamed you for what you did. It was just your bad luck that the kid happened to have no record. It was the publicity that made you hot.”
“And who makes this publicity?”
“We do,” Murdock admitted. “The newspapers. Because the boy’s family and friends began calling in and writing letters. To them it was an illustration of police brutality, and yet they’re the same ones who demand something be done to curb juvenile delinquency when someone else’s kids are involved. The department had to make some kind of a show to cool things off and you took it personally—”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Ten years ago when I was that much younger and that much more stubborn and hotheaded, yes. Now I think I’d try to ride with it.”
“That’s the philosophical approach, hunh?” Kirby tipped one hand. “Well, you’re probably right. But it’s over the dam, so the hell with it. Also this is a lot of talk, but I’m leading up to something and I want to put it all on the line.… You want to nail the one who killed Brady because he was a friend, right?
“I’m not going to kid you,” he said, not waiting for a reply. “I’m not going to tell you he was an old friend of mine, because it’s not true. We weren’t that close and probably never would be because we didn’t think alike. He was getting old and he wanted to keep busy and I want to get someplace. But just the same he gave me a hand when I needed it. He let me share his office for free until I could pay my half. He put in a good word for me here and there and I’m not likely to forget it. But I’d be a liar if I said that was the only reason I’d like to have a hand in cracking this one.”
He pushed his dish aside and said: “I’ve got a couple of accounts of my own. Now I’ll probably keep handling the ones I took over for Tom
while he was away. Pretty soon I’ll be able to take someone in with me. If I keep plugging I hope to get a real nice little agency. I like the work. I wouldn’t have started out a cop if I didn’t feel that way. You want to crack the case for Tom; I want to crack it partly for Tom but mostly for me. If that sounds a little cold-blooded that’s the way it is and you’re too smart a guy for me to try to kid.”
Such frankness impressed Murdock. He felt that Kirby meant what he said and, considering the character of the man as he knew it, the statement did not sound cold-blooded. Kirby was ambitious and he was thinking of Kirby.
“What you really mean is that you could use a little publicity,” he said.
Kirby’s grin came again, but the eyes remained intent as he nodded.
“If I can help,” he said. “You’re the press. I’m talking to one of the top guys. You’ll know—if the case is cracked at all—whether I’ve put anything in the pot. If I have I know you’ll see I get a couple of lines. I know that without having to ask for it. But my point is this: will you co-operate? Or maybe that’s not the way to put it. What I mean is, if you have something you don’t want to go to the police with, but you still need help, will you let me see what I can do?”
Murdock said yes, and meant it. He said the trouble was that he had no idea what he could do next. He said there were only two things he could tell Kirby that Kirby did not already know, and mentioned first the incident at Brady’s apartment.
Kirby’s gray-green eyes opened wide and his lips whistled softly. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You could have got yourself killed.”
“I probably would have if I had turned on the light.”
“That’s for sure. You had him trapped. Once you got a look at him he’d have to shoot.” He shook his head, his brows furrowed. “But why?” he said. “You knew the cops had searched the place.”
Murdock said he knew now that it was a bad idea, but at the time he thought there might be a chance the police had overlooked something.
“Also,” he said, “I had a couple of callers when I got home, probably the same ones who searched Sally Fisher’s place and snatched her bag.”
He went on to explain what had happened and what Bacon had said about the two thugs. He said he did not know their names but that Bacon did.
“They’ll be out on bail some time today,” he added. “Bacon thinks there’s a chance they might lead him to the one who hired them.”
“On that,” Kirby said, “maybe I can help. I can find out who they are and I’ve got some contacts that might be able to tip me off.… Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, “that’s all right. That could be a lead.”
He was quicker than Murdock when the waiter presented the check. “Don’t argue,” he said, when Murdock protested. “This is mine. I’m the guy that’s asking the favor.” He put a half dollar on the table and pushed back his chair. “If you’ve got nothing better to do,” he said, “you could think about the Aldersons. You can work on them from the inside because you know them. If you need any help outside just say so.”
He grinned and said: “I wouldn’t mind investigating that blonde. What’s her name—Rita? She’s a real doll.… I’ll stop by later in the day,” he said, “and we can compare notes. Okay?”
Murdock found he had a second caller when he returned to the studio. Delaney saw him come in and stopped him long enough to say that a woman was waiting for him.
“She didn’t give her name,” he said. “Said she was an old friend of yours.”
Murdock stepped round the jutting partition and found her sitting in the chair by the window, a nice-looking woman of thirty or so, beginning to look a little matronly now but still having the nice complexion and the erect, well-moulded figure Murdock remembered. She was dressed in black—dress, coat, and hat. Her name was Alice—he could not recall her married name—and she was Tom Brady’s daughter.
She rose when she saw him and let him take both of her hands. For an instant her dark eyes were misty, but she blinked back the tears and worked on a smile. When she finally spoke her voice was quiet but controlled and she seemed to have her emotions in hand.
“Hello, Kent.”
Murdock did not know what to say. Many things went through his mind in that moment, but all seemed so inadequate and unsatisfactory that all he could do was repeat the greeting.
“Hello, Alice.”
He glanced round, needing time and knowing they could not talk here. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get out of here.” And then he had her by the arm, guiding her back to the elevators and riding to the fifth floor, where a row of partitioned offices had been erected opposite the elevators for the use of certain specialists. One of the smaller ones had been assigned to an editorial writer who was seldom in at that time of day, and when Murdock found it empty they stepped inside.
“They telephoned last night,” she said, and sat down, her gaze averted, as though she was not quite ready to face him and wanted to spare him the effort of expressing his sympathy. “Someone from the police,” she said.
Murdock watched her a moment and then he, too, had to look away. His face was hot and his hands were sweaty and he had to swallow to clear the hardness from his throat. He still did not know how to express the things he felt, but he had to try.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said huskily.
“I know you don’t, Kent. It’s too early yet and it isn’t necessary because I know how you felt about Dad.”
“Have you talked to anyone?”
“Only Dad’s lawyer. I wanted to see you first. I—I thought you could tell me how it happened.”
Murdock took a small breath, wondering where to begin. Then he hunched forward with his forearms on his knees and his gaze fixed and sightless. Not bothering with the incidents that had happened later, he told what had happened at Brady’s office. When he finished she asked if the police knew who did it and he had to say no. It was then that she took the letter from her handbag.
“Dad stopped overnight with us on his way up from Florida,” she said. “He wrote this letter before he left there and I brought it along because I hoped it might help.” She looked down at the folded sheets and bit her lip.
“I’m afraid it isn’t very definite,” she said, “because he always insisted that what he did for others was confidential. He never wrote any of the particulars but he did mention things that gave us an idea of what sort of case he was working on. Mostly, I think, because he wanted us to know he kept busy.”
“Did he say anything about this last job when you saw him?”
“Only that it was the biggest one he ever had. He seemed very proud of what he had done and he said there’d be a nice bonus and for us to think of something we needed for the house.”
Her mouth trembled as she finished and now she was unfolding the letter and examining the two sheets. One of these, apparently dealing with personal things, she refolded and returned to the envelope; the other she passed to Murdock.
“This is about as close as he ever came to being specific.… No, don’t read it now,” she said, and started to rise. “When you get time. It probably isn’t anything, anyway.… I’ll be at the Sheraton, Kent.”
“What can I do?” Murdock said as he came to his feet. “I can take care of everything if you—”
She smiled as she interrupted. “The lawyer will see to things,” she said. “I understand the—the body will be released tomorrow and I thought the day after would be all right for the funeral. The lawyer said he thought that some of Dad’s friends from the police department might want to—” She swallowed and tried again. “Perhaps you’d like to be one of the pallbearers.”
Murdock had to clear his throat before he could say yes, and again there was that stinging in his eyes. Then she was at the door, telling him that she could find her way out. She did not look at him again and he did not insist, watching her standing there holding her shoulders back and her chin up until the elevator came and the door closed.
He swore softly as he came back to the office and when he found it did nothing to relieve his black mood of depression, he sat down and opened the sheet which proved to be a piece of hotel stationery.
The letter was typewritten. The many mistakes were blocked out rather than erased, but the phrasing was unmistakably Brady’s. When Murdock had read it through he began again more slowly.
… no question about this being the biggest case I ever worked on but I’m not sure I’d want to handle another like it.
I guess my trouble is that I’m getting old and I think too much. It’s all right when I’m actually working because the job is a challenge and I’m using the tricks of the trade I learned as a cop. It’s when I turn in the reports that I wonder.
Take this one I’m finishing up. I guess you’d say it was a family matter where the mother—a wealthy one—isn’t satisfied to let her kids alone but has to try to dominate everyone. What happens when, instead of leaving well enough alone, she finds out one of her sons had a marriage she didn’t know anything about, that one of her daughters-in-law maybe isn’t a daughter-in-law at all and that the other one stayed a month at the same hotel the family lawyer happened to be staying at?
When I think of the trouble I’m making for a lot of people I sometimes wish I hadn’t started. Sometimes I think I’d like to tear up what I have and give her back my salary and expenses. The only trouble is I don’t have that much to spare and I accepted the job and I suppose I’m obligated to handle it in good faith. And anyway just because she wants to play God is no reason I should. But you see there’s more to my work than you’d think.
One thing, I’ll be able to spend the night with you and Fred on my way North, and will I be glad to see the two children.
With love,
Murdock put the letter in his pocket, no longer thinking about the man who had written the words, but about their significance. When he saw how the reference in the letter supplemented the fragmentary knowledge he had gained from the documents he had photographed, he knew what he wanted to do. Stepping to the desk, he picked up the telephone and asked for an outside fine.
Murder on Their Minds Page 9